


i need you just as much as you need me

by talkwordytome



Series: Emily-verse (Ratched) [4]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mildred Ratched Needs a Hug, Sickfic, references to child neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: in which Gwendolyn & Emily come down with the flu, and it's up to Mildred to save the day.(that is, until Mildred needs just a lil saving of her own).
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs & Emily (original character), Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched, Mildred Ratched & Emily (original character)
Series: Emily-verse (Ratched) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036965
Comments: 37
Kudos: 62





	i need you just as much as you need me

**Author's Note:**

> so if you follow me on tumblr you maybe saw my post about my cat dying super unexpectedly very early Tuesday morning, and fic is sort of the only thing keeping me sane & keeping me from bursting into tears every ten seconds. So hopefully this is coherent & good & readable and doesn't feel like something an insane person wrote.
> 
> title comes from the song "dead & born & grown" by the staves
> 
> rated Teen for brief swearing
> 
> this fic takes place in February 1955, so Emily is 10 and in the 5th grade

Dinner at the Briggs house that evening is an oddly quiet affair. Emily, who usually spends the mealtime regaling Gwendolyn and Mildred with stories from her school day, is withdrawn and even a bit sullen. She pushes her food around her plate and offers one word answers or shrugs to the questions Mildred and Gwendolyn ask, hopeful they might cheer her. But Emily just glowers at her lap, apparently angry about something, though Mildred can’t for the life of her figure out what.

They’re clearing their plates when Mildred, as she passes by Emily’s chair, puts her hand on the crown of Emily’s head and murmurs, “Sweets, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” Emily mutters, scowling.

Gwendolyn and Mildred exchange a glance. “Did something happen at school?” Gwendolyn asks, voice gentle.

Emily’s scowl deepens. “No,” she grits out, her jaw set.

“Did you and Kathleen have a fight?” Mildred tries.

Emily presses her mouth into a thin line. “ _No_.”

“Honey,” Gwendolyn says tentatively, “you just don’t seem like you’re in a very good mood, and we’d like to help if we can--”

Emily stands up so quickly that her chair falls backwards onto the floor. Heat creeps up her neck and her eyes are bright with anger. “I _said_ ,” she says, voice raised, “that I’m _fine_! Why won’t you be quiet and leave me _alone_?”

She’s well and truly yelling by the end of her small tantrum. Mildred’s and Gwendolyn’s eyes are wide, too shocked to do much more than stare. Emily slaps a hand over her mouth, clearly horrified at herself for losing her temper. Her eyes fill with tears and she whimpers softly. Then she turns and races out of the room. 

Mildred and Gwendolyn follow behind, but Emily is quick, and she’s already at the top of the stairs by the time they’re at the bottom of them. “Baby,” Mildred calls after her, “please come back; we’re not upset, we’re just _worried_.”

The only answer is Emily’s door as it slams shut. 

Gwendolyn and Mildred look at each other, stricken. “I’m going to go and talk to her--” Gwendolyn says immediately, but Mildred’s hand to her elbow stops her.

“We should give her a few minutes,” Mildred says. “We can do the dishes and let her have her cry, and then we’ll check on her.”

Gwendolyn sighs. She leans forward until her forehead is pressed against Mildred’s. “You’re right, of course,” she murmurs, “but I _wish_ you weren’t.”

Mildred pulls back enough to drop a kiss on Gwendolyn’s temple. “I know,” she says. “Me too.”

The work through the dishes without speaking, the radio quietly rumbling out the evening news in the background. Gwendolyn washes and Mildred dries. Once everything has been stowed away in its proper drawer or cabinet, Gwendolyn turns to Mildred expectantly. “Now?”

Mildred nods and takes Gwendolyn’s hand in her own. “Now.”

They tiptoe up the stairs and hesitate in front of Emily’s door for only a moment before softly knocking. “Emily?” Mildred says. “May we come in?”

There’s no answer, and Mildred and Gwendolyn look at each other anxiously.

They crack open the door, and when there’s no objection from Emily they open it a little wider. They open it wider still when they realize Emily is lying on top of the covers, still fully clothed, and apparently asleep. 

“Oh, the poor little thing cried herself out,” Gwen whispers. 

“We should wake her up so she can dress for bed,” Mildred whispers back. 

They creep over to the bed. Emily is curled into a small ball. Her face is flushed and streaked with tears. Mildred can tell that Emily’s eyes are swollen beneath her lids. She pushes a curl back from Emily’s forehead, then freezes with her hand in place. 

“Gwendolyn,” she says, “she’s _burning_ up.”

Gwendolyn rushes over to Emily’s bedside and replaces Mildred’s hand with her own. “You’re right,” she says lowly. “Oh, no wonder she was in such a mood during dinner.” She runs a hand through Emily’s hair. “Sweet girl, I’m _so_ sorry that I didn’t know.”

Emily stirs a bit at these touches. She blinks herself slowly into wakefulness. When she registers Mildred and Gwendolyn her mouth trembles and fresh tears fill her eyes. “I didn’t mean to yell,” she croaks, her voice raspy, “I didn’t--I’d never…never be _bad_ , I’m sorry--I don’t…I--” but she cuts herself off with a coughing fit that sounds like it must hurt something dreadful.

“Shhh,” Gwendolyn soothes. She rubs Emily’s back. “You’re sick, baby, that’s why you were so upset. That’s all. You just weren’t feeling very good, huh?”

Emily nods. She looks so confused and miserable that Mildred thinks it may just crack her ribs wide open. “I’ll get the thermometer,” she murmurs, slipping seamlessly back into the role of nurse.

It’s difficult for Mildred, when Emily is sick. She’s reminded too acutely of her own childhood; she finds herself wondering about all the times before Emily found them that she had to suffer through illness without any sort of love or tenderness or care. It’s easier to focus on all the tasks that must be completed in the face of illness. It’s easier to detach; not a lot, not so much that Emily notices, just enough that it doesn’t hurt quite so much.

When Mildred returns, she has the thermometer, along with a glass of water, a cool compress, and a bottle of aspirin. “Open up, sweet thing,” Mildred says, shaking down the mercury, and Emily follows the instructions without complaint.

Mildred lays the compress across Emily’s forehead while they’re waiting for the minutes to pass and Gwendolyn arranges the water and medicine on Emily’s bedside table. When Mildred removes the thermometer from Emily’s mouth, she holds it up to the light to read it. She frowns. “102,” she sighs. “You must have that flu that’s been going around your class. Poor baby.”

Emily sniffles and stares up at Mildred and Gwendolyn balefully. “I feel awful,” she says. “Everything hurts.”

“That’ll be the fever,” Mildred says. 

She opens the aspirin and shakes a tablet into her palm. She gives it to Emily, who sets it on her tongue. She grimaces at the slightly chalky bitterness. She swallows it with a sip of water, wincing. “My throat hurts.”

“Good girl,” Mildred says, “and I’m sure it does.” She goes to Emily’s dresser and gets her a clean pair of pajamas, which she sets at the foot of the bed. “Change into these,” she instructs, “and let us know when you’re done. Alright?”

Emily nods, standing on shaky legs. Mildred offers her arm as support, but Emily shakes her head. Gwendolyn and Mildred give Emily her privacy, though they leave the door ajar so they’ll hear if she needs help. Gwendolyn smiles tiredly at Mildred and tenderly cups her jaw.

“What?” Mildred asks, brows quirked in confusion.

“I just forget that you really are such an excellent nurse,” Gwendolyn says. “That’s all.”

Mildred blushes and attempts to wave the compliment away, but Gwendolyn pulls her in for a hug. “Oh no you don’t,” she says, laughing. “I’m going to be nice to you whether you like it or not.”

Mildred grumbles her complaints against Gwendolyn’s neck, but she doesn’t pull away. 

While Emily finishes putting on her pajamas, Mildred and Gwendolyn gather up the supplies necessary for looking after Emily. They’ve just closed the bathroom medicine cabinet when Emily weakly calls out for them. She’s tucked herself into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. The compress is positioned carefully on her forehead. She stares at where Gwendolyn and Mildred stand in the doorway with large, expectant eyes.

Mildred sits down on the left side of the bed and Gwendolyn sits down on the right. “How’s your chest?” Mildred asks seriously.

Emily, like Mildred, has weak lungs; though unlike Mildred, she’s never nearly died of pneumonia. Still, they’re a concern whenever Emily gets sick, and especially when it’s anything more significant than a cold. Mildred is ever-vigilant for any signs of croup or bronchitis.

Emily makes a _so-so_ gesture with her left hand in answer to Mildred’s question. “Stuffy, mostly,” she says, “but not so bad.”

“Any tightness?” Mildred asks. “Any trouble getting in a breath?”

“No,” Emily says. She yawns. “Mostly I’m just sleepy.”

“Sleep soon,” Mildred says, “but not just yet.” She opens a jar of Vapo-Rub and Emily groans.

“I _hate_ that stuff,” Emily mutters.

“I know, sweet,” Mildred says sympathetically. She undoes the first few buttons of Emily’s pajama shirt. “I do, too. But it helps, doesn’t it?”

“I guess,” Emily says, wrinkling her nose at the strong smell of the camphor, which she detects even through her congestion. 

Mildred takes Emily’s temperature again, and is pleased when it’s down to 101. “Good,” she says, “the aspirin and the compress are working. We’ll have to wake you up in about five hours or so for another dose, though, I’m sorry.”

Emily yawns again. “That’s fine,” she sighs. She turns onto her side. “Can I sleep now?”

Mildred kisses one temple and Gwendolyn kisses the other. “Yes,” Mildred says, “rest. We’ll be in to check on you in a little while, alright?”

“I’ll be okay,” Emily mumbles, already mostly drifted off. 

“I have no doubt,” Mildred says. “My little trooper. But we’ll do it anyway.”

A few more kisses are pressed to Emily’s cheeks and forehead, and then Mildred and Gwendolyn tiptoe to the door. “Love you,” Emily whispers.

“Love you too, baby,” Gwendolyn whispers back.

Out in the hall, Gwendolyn presses her fingers against her temples and frowns. “I know it’s early,” she says, a bit apologetically, “but I’ve got a crushing headache and I think I’d like to go to bed, too.”

Mildred can feel her heart beating faster against her ribcage. “Are you feeling alright?” she asks anxiously. “Are _you_ getting sick?”

Gwendolyn shakes her head and yawns. “I don’t think so,” she says. “But I’ll take some aspirin before I fall asleep, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Mildred purses her lips, disbelieving, but the alternative frightens her too much to consider, so she lets it go for now. Instead, she wraps Gwendolyn in a hug and kisses the pulse point on her neck. They stay this way for a few moments, rocking quietly back and forth to music only they can hear. When they pull apart Mildred scrutinizes Gwendolyn. She’s paler than Mildred would like and her eyes are glassy. She palms Gwendolyn’s forehead and ignores the whines Gwendolyn makes in response. Not feverish yet, at least.

“Bed,” Mildred says firmly. “If you are getting sick--”

“I’m _not_.”

“-- _if_ you _are_ ,” Mildred continues, as though she wasn’t interrupted, “the extra rest can only help.”

The next morning, though, Gwendolyn wakes with a heavy head and a throat too sore to reliably form words. It takes everything in Mildred’s power to keep from bursting into tears. “I’m _so_ sorry--” Gwendolyn groans, but Mildred shushes her.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Mildred says. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t help being sick.”

Gwendolyn begins to make noises about getting out of bed to check on Emily, but a glare from Mildred puts a stop to that right away. “ _I_ will check on Emily,” Mildred says, “and make you tea. If I come back and you’re out of bed, Gwendolyn Briggs, I will be _very_ cross with you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Gwendolyn says, giggling weakly. It turns into a cough, and Mildred makes crooning sounds as she rubs Gwendolyn’s back. 

Emily, as it turns out, is already awake. She’s propped up against a stack of pillows and reading _Anne of Green Gables_ for what must be at least the sixth or seventh time. She smiles when she sees Mildred and offers her a little wave. 

“It’s early,” Mildred says, “you should still be sleeping.”

“My throat hurt,” Emily says, and her voice does indeed sound thick and sore. “It woke me up and then I couldn’t fall back to sleep.”

“You should’ve come and gotten me,” Mildred says, a bit fretful. “I could’ve helped.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Emily says without meeting Mildred’s eyes.

Mildred sits at the edge of Emily’s bed. She rubs her thumb over the back of Emily’s hand. “You,” she says, quiet and earnest, “are never, _ever_ a bother, and _especially_ not when you’re sick. Alright?”

Emily nods. “Where’s Gwendolyn?”

Mildred smiles ruefully. “She’s caught the same thing you have, I’m afraid,” she says.

Emily’s eyes widen. “Is it my fault?” she demands.

“No,” Mildred reassures, “no, not even a little bit. The flu is awful this year, baby, and Gwendolyn could’ve picked it up anywhere. She might’ve even been the one to give it to you.”

She kisses Emily’s forehead. She pulls _Anne_ from her hands and slips a bookmark into it to keep Emily’s place. She sets it on the bedside table and adjusts Emily’s pillows. “I’m going to make you some warm salt water,” she says, “for your throat. You gargle it. It’ll taste terrible and you won’t like it a bit, but it’ll help with the soreness.”

Emily pouts. “Can I have hot chocolate after?” she asks hopefully.

Mildred shakes her head with a small, sympathetic smile. “Ginger tea,” she says, “with grapefruit juice and honey, and a bit of plain toast for breakfast.” She stands and smooths Emily’s blankets. “After that a nap, and then maybe-- _maybe_ \--some hot chocolate.”

She peeks in on Gwendolyn on her way downstairs and is pleased to see she’s sleeping again. She makes a mental list of the things she’ll need to gather as she’s waiting for the tea to be ready: tissues, ice packs, Alka-Seltzer, water, fresh compresses. In the kitchen, she fills the kettle with water and sets it on a burner to boil. She makes two slices of toast; butter for Gwendolyn and strawberry jam for Emily. The kettle sings, and Mildred pours the steaming water into two mugs, adds a satchel of ginger tea to each. 

She has just put the kettle back down when panic, sharp and acute, hits her in the chest like a bolt of lightning. Her legs go weak and she sinks slowly to the ground. She buries her head in her arms and focuses very hard on not hyperventilating, which she knows will just make everything worse. It’ll make her chest feel like it’s locking up, and then she won’t be able to properly breathe at all.

She manages to calm herself enough to stand and wobble over to the phone. She picks it up with shaking hands and dials a number that she still knows by heart, even after nearly four years. She waits, trembling, for the operator to connect her.

Finally, finally, comes the voice Mildred is desperate to hear: warm and familiar and decidedly annoyed. “Bueno, dime, puta _madre_ \--”

Mildred blinks. “Oh,” she says, “it’s only 5:30 there, isn’t it? I forgot about the time difference. Oh, Fernanda, I _woke_ you, I’m so sorry, I--”

“Mildred?” Fernanda says, mystified. “Coño, don’t scare me like that, mija. Dios mío. Why are you calling so early? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Mildred, feeling sheepish now, scuffs her toe against the kitchen floor. “I--it’s nothing,” she says. “I’m fine; we’re all fine.”

“You would not be calling me at this hour if everything was fine,” Fernanda points out, already sounding more awake. Mildred can nearly see her turning on the lights and shuffling sleepily into the kitchen for a cup of strong black coffee. “Tell me about what has happened.”

Mildred closes her eyes tightly as tears drip down her cheeks. She wipes them away with the back of her hand. “It’s Gwendolyn,” she says, “and Emily. They--they’re sick.”

“Sick how, mija?” Fernanda prompts patiently.

Mildred sniffles. “They’ve both got fevers,” she says, “and coughs. Their throats are sore and they’re achy. Some…some sinus congestion, and tiredness.”

Fernanda is quiet for a moment. “That sounds to me,” she eventually says, “quite a lot like the flu.”

“It’s been going around,” Mildred admits.

“You are a nurse--”

“I _was_ a nurse,” Mildred corrects.

“You _are_ a nurse, mija,” Fernanda says firmly, “so tell me: what should you do?”

Mildred rubs her fingers over the ridges of her clavicle. “Make sure they rest,” she whispers, “and drink plenty of fluids. They have to eat, even if they’re not hungry, to keep their strength up. And Emily needs a…a humidifier for her lungs, to keep them clear.”

“Mmm,” Fernanda hums her agreement. “Good girl. You sound like you have it taken care of, no?”

Mildred nods then, realizing Fernanda can’t see her, murmurs a, “yes.” She presses two fingers against her lips and swallows back new tears. “Fernanda, I don’t want anything--she _has_ to be okay because I…I don’t know what I’d _do_ \--” her breath hitches on a sob, and she’s unable to finish.

“Mildred,” Fernanda says tenderly, “mija, no tears. Enough of that. It is the flu. Nothing more. Gwendolyn is going to be just fine. You, I know, will make certain of that.”

Mildred hangs up the phone feeling a bit stronger. She brings Emily and Gwendolyn their breakfasts, makes sure they eat everything down to the crusts. It’s harder for Emily than it is for Gwendolyn. She struggles with food on good days, and illness and anxiety almost always dampen her appetite. She nibbles at her toast and tries to push it away when she’s half-finished, but Mildred gently coaxes her to finish the whole slice. 

“Are you sure you’re up to looking after both of us?” Gwendolyn asks later that afternoon. She takes a long sip of tea. “I don’t want you exhausting yourself and getting this, too, and you really are _dreadful_ about sleeping and eating when you’re under stress--”

“Gwendolyn,” Mildred soothes, “I’ll be fine. There’s no need to worry about me.”

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn says through coughs, “I _always_ have a need to worry about you.”

For all her anxiety and uncertainty in the face of Gwendolyn and Emily’s illnesses, she certainly rises to the occasion. But, then, Mildred had never encountered an occasion to which she _couldn’t_ rise. She makes Gwendolyn cold compresses for her fever and wraps Emily in extra blankets when she’s chilled. She slips a bit of lavender and valerian root in Gwendolyn’s tea when she begins making noises about getting out of bed to help. She makes a pot of chicken soup from scratch, and then another when the first one is a success. She wakes in the night to administer water and medicine, cool hands to heated brows and soft reassurances after delirious dreams. She makes herself a bed on the living room sofa and sleeps when her mind quiets enough to let her, which isn’t often.

The hours pass like days and the days pass like hours. Time moves like honey dripping slowly into a cup of tea. The air in the house feels thick and yellowed and difficult to breathe. Mildred survives on heady black coffee and peaches and the occasional cigarette. 

Late one night, nearly a week after Emily first fell ill, long after she and Gwendolyn are both sleeping, Mildred goes outside. The moon is so full it’s almost comely; a great, glittering dewdrop. The sort of moon you want to serve things to on a silver platter. Mildred’s bare feet throb from the cold; goosebumps stand out on her bare arms. She looks up at the sky, comforted to be so small in the face of something so large, and she waits for healing.

Healing arrives a day later in the form of lower temperatures and better appetites. Mildred is exhausted, but grateful for the improvement nonetheless. She very pointedly ignores the way her head throbs every time she moves too suddenly and the scratchy tightness in the back of her throat. _I’m tired_ , she thinks. _It’s been a long, miserable week, and I’m tired. That’s all_. 

She’s tired as she makes Emily and Gwendolyn breakfast, and she’s tired as she washes their dishes. She’s tired as she folds the blankets she used for her sofa bed, and she’s tired as she reads to Emily from _Anne of Green Gables_. 

She’s tired as she brings Gwendolyn a fresh cup of tea, so tired that her hands are shaking, so tired that she drops the mug to the floor, where it shatters messily onto the hardwood.

“Fuck!” Mildred exclaims, then stomps her foot. “God _dammit_!”

“Mildred!” Gwendolyn says, her eyes wide. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, until--to the immense surprise of both of them--Mildred promptly bursts into tears; huge, gasping, sobs, like a small child who’s crying too hard to catch their breath.

Gwendolyn stands so quickly that it’s like she’s been catapulted from the bed. “Mildred,” she says, affectionate but alarmed at the rapidity of this breakdown, “sweetheart, it’s okay, please, please don’t cry. I’m here, and I love you, and it’ll be okay. I love you so much, darling.”

She guides a still weeping Mildred over to the bed to sit. Between sobs, Mildred attempts to talk. “I can’t--I don’t...I don’t know--I...I...I,” she manages, but Gwendolyn shushes her. 

Mildred is vaguely aware of being petted and cooed to as she lies with her head pillowed on Gwendolyn’s lap, and there’s a part of her brain that knows she should probably be embarrassed about all this, but there’s another, larger, part of her brain that’s too exhausted to care. 

“Are you okay, baby?” Gwendolyn asks gently as Mildred’s crying slows.

The word _fine_ gets caught somewhere in Mildred’s throat and she falls to coughing, wracking and painful, instead. 

“So that’s a no,” Gwendolyn says, worry masked by dry amusement. She places a hand on Mildred’s forehead and Mildred closes her eyes. _Bliss_. “I think you’re running a fever,” Gwendolyn murmurs, frowning. “You really don’t feel well at all, do you?”

Mildred sneezes and gazes up at Gwendolyn with baleful eyes. She sniffles pathetically and burrows deeper into the comforting heat of Gwendolyn’s body. “I feel terrible,” she says, leaning fully into the _poor sick baby_ routine now that the universe has granted her its permission. And she does feel awful, awful enough that she doesn’t understand how she didn’t really notice until just now. She can’t breathe, and she’s shivering, and every part of her body aches.

But Gwendolyn wanted something--tea? books?--Mildred remembers, and Gwendolyn is still sick, and she needs care. Gwendolyn deserves _all_ of the care, every single sweet tiny morsel of it. Mildred fights against the haze of congestion and Gwendolyn’s warm embrace to stand up, but Gwendolyn immediately wraps an arm tighter around her shoulders and gently forces her back down.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Gwendolyn says sternly, and under any other circumstances that particular _tone_ would be sending warmth pooling down into Mildred’s belly. “Lie down, under the blankets, but not too many or you’ll get overheated. I’m getting you tea. Stay here. Don’t move.”

Mildred is vaguely aware of Gwendolyn shuffling from the room, sniffling and coughing a bit as she goes, and Mildred thinks it might be nice to read, but her book is too far to reach. The bed is so warm, the pillows so soft, and she seems to have gone a bit boneless and unthinking. 

She closes her eyes--for maybe five minutes, or an hour, she can’t quite figure out which--and when she opens them again Gwendolyn is standing next to her holding a steaming mug of tea. “Hi there, sleepyhead,” she says fondly. She holds out the tea. “Think you can sit up enough to drink a bit of this?”

Mildred accepts the mug in hands that are still shaking ever so slightly and takes a tentative sip. She makes a contented, stuffy humming noise when it soothes her throat and loosens some of the tightness in her head. 

Emily appears in the doorway. Her hair is messy and her pajamas are rumpled, but she’s steadier on her feet and not nearly so pale. She yawns. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I think we gave Mildred our flu,” Gwendolyn says, smiling sadly.

Emily pouts. “Poor Mama,” she says. She walks over to the bed and joins Mildred under the covers. “We’ll take the best care of you. It’s not fair that you have to feel badly when you took such lovely care of us.”

“You don’t have to do anything special for me, really--” Mildred begins, but an unusually fierce glare from Gwendolyn stops her cold.

“Stop being ridiculous,” Gwendolyn instructs tartly. “The _idea_ that we would leave you alone to languish is absurd; not something worth entertaining for even a second.”

“I’m sorry we got you sick,” Emily says, leaning her head against Mildred’s shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” Mildred sniffles, smiling tiredly at Emily. “But thank you anyway.”

Mildred turns to Gwendolyn to say something else, but suddenly she can’t get the words out for coughing. Tears spring to her eyes as she strains to get a complete breath. She grips her hands against her ribcage and doubles over until the fit passes.

She’s vaguely aware of Gwendolyn’s arms wrapped securely around her shoulders. “Poor sweet,” Gwendolyn coos, “your poor lungs.”

“Not…so…bad,” Mildred manages to wheeze, but Emily squeezes her hand.

“You’re allowed to not feel well,” she says seriously.

Gwendolyn pushes a lock of hair back from Mildred’s eyes. “We can’t let that cough turn into pneumonia,” she murmurs. “I’d like to try something, and I don’t think you’ll like it, but I do think it’ll help.”

“Like the salt water gargle you made me do,” Emily says to Mildred.

The _something_ ends up being a glass of warm milk and turmeric. Mildred eyes it with thinly veiled distaste. “It doesn’t taste very good,” Gwendolyn says apologetically, “and it’s going to make you cough, but it’ll help get up some of what’s making it hard for you to breathe.”

Mildred hates it, every single bit. The flavor isn’t so bad; it’s tangy and oddly earthy. What’s awful is the way it makes her hack and gag on the mucous it brings up. She cries between sips, which likely doesn’t help the situation any, but she can’t help it. It _hurts_. She coughs so violently she’s certain her ribs are going to break. Gwendolyn holds a towel to her mouth so she can spit and tells her how brave she is. 

When she’s finished the entire, vile concoction Mildred braces herself against Gwendolyn and sobs. She’s dimly aware that she might be worrying Emily, who is petting her arm in an attempt to comfort her, but she can’t quite get the tears to stop. 

Mildred calms enough for Gwendolyn to tuck her back beneath the covers. Emily snuggles up next to her, sensing that she’s in need of extra comfort. Gwendolyn adds fresh hot water and a few drops of mint oil to the humidifier and turns it on. Fragrant steam fills the air, and it soothes Mildred until she’s nearly fallen to sleep. 

“The two of you are going to spend the day resting,” Gwendolyn says sternly. “And no arguments, Emily; you’re still much too peaky for my taste. The flu is not an illness to toy with, young lady, and you still had a touch of fever last night.”

“I don’t mind,” Emily says, playing with a lock of Mildred’s hair. “We can lie in bed all day, and we can read books, and play with paper dolls, and eat all the ice cream we want.”

“I think,” Mildred says, smiling weakly up at Gwendolyn, “that may be precisely what the doctor ordered.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have more to do in interludes & some more requests I got ages ago to work through and I will be doing those! I just needed to write this as a comfort thing.
> 
> Happy New Year! Hey 2020--don't let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya. Seriously. BYE BITCH!!!!!!!!!


End file.
